


Rose-Tinted Glasses

by onepercent



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Beaches, Dialogue Light, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Married Life, No Plot/Plotless, just fluff, literally no plot at all, vacations dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 11:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onepercent/pseuds/onepercent
Summary: Grantaire finally convinces Enjolras to step away from his work and step into a nice, lazy vacation on the beach.





	Rose-Tinted Glasses

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in forty five minutes before going to help my friend with precal homework. There is no plot at all, mostly just me expressing my desire for school to end and summer to start. Enjoy regardless.

Enjolras is sitting in the hot tub. He’s sitting backwards, facing away from the water, so he can read without fear of dropping his torn, dog-eared book into the bubbling abyss, and there’s a towel laid on the edge of the tub so his arms don’t get burned by the hot stone. There’s a coke, its fizz long lost to the buzzing heat, near his right elbow, sticky, lemon-strawberry flavored and lukewarm, and he takes absent-minded sips of it every few pages. He’s facing toward the sun, skin a little tender and turning slightly pink with warmth and the suggestion of a burn, though he put on his fair share of sunscreen before coming outside in the tropical July. 

They’re on vacation, technically. Enjolras’ newest book set a personal record, and it’s already a New York Times bestseller, so instead of travelling across Europe doing book signings and appearances and lectures and speeches as usual, he was convinced after many many arguments into taking a week-long lazy vacay somewhere in Bermuda. If it were up to him, he and Grantaire would just stay alone in their small but highly functional Parisian apartment for the week instead, but he had to admit that this was nice as well. They rented out the apartment for the week, too, so they wouldn’t pay extra rent for when they wouldn’t be there. They don’t like to spend extra money when they don’t have to, mostly because Grantaire used to be poor and Enjolras is a minimalist or something. 

His mind is quiet, and one of his eyes is closed and the other half-lidded as he reads, simultaneously entranced in his book and teetering on the edge of a catnap. His hair is in a loose bun at the top of his head so not to get it wet, as they will probably go out to a nice dinner later and Enjolras exploded his hairdryer earlier in the week because he used the wrong converter for the plug.

So serene is he that he notices not the small splash of someone else sliding into the gurgling water behind him, and thusly startles when he feels cool arms wrapping around his waist and his husband’s scruffy chin lie on his pinkened shoulder. “Whatcha readin’,” sing-songs Grantaire, fingertips skating slowly over Enjolras’ stomach, tickling through the bubbles of the hot-tub. Enjolras doesn’t respond, and instead just points to the title at the top of the page. Enjolras doesn’t quite know if he likes it yet, as he just started it today. He likes to read what he writes—thick, bold-covered hardbacks full of societal discourse and corruption and biting political satire, but always with a good ending—but this one is new, and will probably be turned into a PG-13 movie that ends up being more about the oversaturated love story than the actual plot. 

Grantaire huffs and shifts. “Why is the water actually hot in here,” he complains. “It’s, like, two hundred degrees out.”

“I like it that way,” retorts Enjolras, closing his book, setting it aside, and putting his clackety old sunglasses on so he can turn around and look Grantaire in the face. He kisses him and Grantaire sits in his lap like they are teenagers about to make out in the back of a pick-up truck at a drive-in movie showing of some classic nineties romance flick they’re too young to have seen in its prime. It evokes the same nostalgia, though they didn’t know each other until well into their twenties.

Grantaire settles down and lies his forehead in the crook of Enjolras’ neck, his lips moving on his collarbone, not quite a kiss, but not not a kiss either. They both feel overwhelmingly content—Enjolras to sit and feel the stress steep out of him with the weight of Grantaire on his thighs and the slow, lulling cycle of silver-capped ocean waves washing over the beach just a bit beyond their rented wooden patio, and Grantaire to sit and know his husband—husband, really, it’s been six whole years and he still can’t help but feel bursts of tingling warmth at that word—is relaxed and not worried about any upcoming interviews or writing conventions or anything else, and is just focusing on the now. It is a good feeling for both of them. 

“I’m glad we came,” murmurs Grantaire. Some flyaways from Enjolras’ bun tickle his nose coquettishly, and the blond hairs look like spun white gold in the sunlight. 

“Me too,” admits Enjolras, and it is true. It had originally seemed boring and a waste of money, and he argued against the very idea of a vacation many a time before he relented and let Grantaire buy the tickets, book the condo, and whatever else. The little town they are staying in is quite beautiful; it’s pushed right up against the beach, and it isn’t overrun by tourists or annoying families taking up too much space by the water. The distance from their little condo to the town center is easily and quickly traversed by foot, and the sea breeze follows them wherever they go like lingering perfume. There are a few nice restaurants around for lunch or dinner, and for breakfasts Enjolras makes crepes with sugar and lemon. He finds that he is not necessarily looking forward to going back, and that Grantaire is right—a break is good for him. “It’s nice to get away from all the people,” he continues, twirling Grantaire’s lazy curls around his fingers. 

“I thought you liked people,” Grantaire teases, sitting up to look Enjolras in the eyes. He plucks the sunglasses off of his slightly-burned husband’s face and puts them on himself, the overwhelmingly blue sky now tinged pink to block out the sun. “I, Julien Enjolras, will single-handedly restore humanity for the good of the people of France and then for the universe—“

“Quit it,” says Enjolras, feigning irritation but given away by his small but increasingly fond smile. “I don’t talk like that, and give me my sunglasses back. I’m going to go blind.”

Grantaire just smiles at him cheekily. Enjolras sometimes gets snippy with him for doing dumb stuff while they’re out in the world, but here, they are completely alone but for the birds calling out softly in the distance. The sunglasses suit him, Enjolras decides. They kiss. Grantaire runs his fingertips over the freckles starting to appear on Enjolras’ skin. Enjolras rests his head on Grantaire’s shoulder and breathes in the scent of ocean and sunscreen and skin. The world goes still under a haze of pink, and only starts moving again once they have to go back inside to get ready for dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos or comments if you feel so inclined, they make me so happy and I always appreciate the feedback. I hope you liked this dumb lil thing because it was really relaxing to write and I hope it was nice to read.


End file.
